I'm Right Here
by clair beaubien
Summary: When Dean was gone, Sam still saw him.


Nighttime was the worst. It always was. Shadows, scufflings, noises, movements, voices that could be anything or anyone.

Except Dean.

Nighttime was the worst.

Sam woke up face down in a bed that didn't smell of its previous occupants. He was surprised that he'd let himself fall asleep lying down. Usually when he slept -_when he slept_ - he slept sitting up, with the weapons and the whiskey both close at hand. Now he closed his hand around a soft blanket and a top sheet. The pillows didn't feel like they were filled with sand, the springs weren't popping through the mattress, and he didn't feel like five miles of bad road.

Where the hell was he?

He pushed himself up on one elbow and looked around in the darkness. He'd fallen asleep on top of the blankets in his clothes, that was no surprise. He couldn't remember the last time he'd changed into pajamas, the last time he'd changed his clothes at all. The way his head and his body ached right now, he was surprised he'd made it as far as a bed anyway.

When he turned his head far enough, Sam saw Dean in the bed across from him. Another non-surprise. He saw Dean so often in the nighttimes that he'd finally stopped reacting. Stopped hoping. Stopped uselessly sobbing when he'd turn the light on expectantly, only to find that it was just the duffel of weapons, or shadows, or nothing at all.

Nighttime was the worst.

He closed his eyes and dropped back into his pillows. When he opened his eyes again Dean would be gone. So, for as long as he kept his eyes closed, he could pretend Dean was there, really there, just a few feet, or a touch, or a whisper away.

How long had it been that Dean was gone? Strange how it was hard to keep track. The smallest unit of measure Sam had left was the length of time between losing Dean and being with Dean again. Anything in between was so inconsequential it barely registered.

Breathing. He could hear breathing. He heard that a lot. Breathing, laughter, Dean's voice calling to him in the darkness. Sam often wondered and had come to believe that someone, some_thing,_ was playing tricks on him, trying to drive him to madness. Well, he was halfway there already, wasn't he? If they'd just wait, he'd get there all by himself.

'_Geez, y'want some cheese with that whine_?' he could almost hear Dean asking him, and he didn't know if the sound that pushed out of his throat was a laugh, a choke, or a sob.

The bedsprings squeaked on the other bed. That was a new one, whoever it was tormenting him must be upping their game. Sam kept his eyes closed. He used to always look whenever he heard something, but sometimes Phantom Dean would sit up and stare at him and Sam never liked the blank look of nothing he saw there. Didn't like how much it looked like Dean accusing him, hating him, rejecting him.

Another sound pushed out of Sam's throat that he didn't want to identify and he turned himself over on the bed. And when his bedsprings squeaked, he thought he heard the other bedsprings squeak again too. Guess they really wanted him to look over at the other bed.

So he didn't.

Nighttime was the worst.

He wondered what time it was.

And where he was.

And what was going on.

His head hurt, so he'd taken a knock on the head. His body hurt, so there'd been a fight. Well, if this night wasn't just full of_'tell me something I don't know.'_ But he couldn't remember what motel he'd stopped at, he couldn't remember what he'd done before that. All he could remember was the latest version of the same old dream - Dean back from hell, and everything back to normal.

God, he was tired of those dreams. They never happened often enough.

He sat up in the bed and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. This was_so_ getting old. Maybe if he went out and sat in the car, he'd fall back asleep. Sometimes that worked. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Phantom Dean was still on the other bed, looking at Sam in the darkness. If Sam turned the light on, Dean would disappear.

So he didn't turn the light on.

He was barely past the foot of his bed, patting his pockets for the car keys, when he tiredly realized he was at Bobby's. Which confused him even more. Why was he at Bobby's? How'd he even get here? He hadn't seen Bobby in months. Not since they buried Dean. What was going on?

The bedside lamp turned on behind him and a voice froze him where he stood.

"You forget how to walk 'r something?"

Phantom Dean. But Phantom Dean never turned on the light. Never sounded amused.

_Dean?_

"You're not taking up sleepwalking, are you, Sammy?"

Sam felt his knees want to buckle as he turned back to the voice.

Phantom Dean was never armed, never tired. He was always stern and stoic, dressed, rested, and accusing, except for the times when Sam turned on the light to find Dean's savaged corpse bleeding and twitching and gurgling on a bed where no bed was.

This Dean – _this Dean - _was tired and rumpled, with a shotgun by the head of his bed, and the handle of his knife just showing under the pillow. He was pushing himself upright, rubbing his eyes with one hand. He looked concerned.

"_Dean?"_

"Sam? You all right?"

And like a faucet suddenly turned on, Sam's brain filled with all the memories of the past few days. Memories that weren't dreams or hallucinations or torments. Dean was back, Dean was alive, Dean was here, right here. Right freakin'_here_, not five feet away from him. Sam's heart filled with all the awe and wonder and relief and joy of Dean's return and he did the only thing he could do.

He left the room and went down the stairs and out of the house as fast as he could.

It wasn't until he was outside that he realized he was barefoot in a salvage yard and that couldn't end anyway but _bad_, so he went back to sit on the top step.

A week ago – a week ago he'd been –_not with Dean._ A week ago Dean was still dead and Sam was still begging Heaven and cursing hell to let him go, and all the future offered him was blood and pain and paralyzing loneliness.

Then Dean was there, just_there,_ and everything had happened so fast after that, that Sam's mind was still working to wrap itself around the fact that Dean was back and safe and alive. Dean was_here,_ and Sam suddenly couldn't deal with it.

He had Dean back._Again._

Yeah, the angel brought Dean back because God had 'work' for him to do, but Dean wasn't_with_ God right now, was he? He was with Sam. Dean was upstairs, safe and sound and alive and healthy and funny and sarcastic and bossy and concerned and just plain_Dean_, and Sam just couldn't deal with it.

How could something that should've made him so happy make him feel so sick to his stomach? How could he be afraid to be around the one person who would never hurt him? Why was he running away from the brother he'd been willing to die to have back?

It was more than - than what Sam had been doing since Dean died, more than the lies he'd already been telling Dean. It was - it was -

"Sam?" Dean's voice reached him just a second before the porch door twanged open and Sam stood up and turned to him. Dean had pulled on his jeans and shirt before coming out and the yard light gave just enough shine that Sam could see his face. "Sam - you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay." Sam tried to sound casual and upbeat and anything other than how freaked he was feeling. Then Dean came toward him and Sam took an involuntary step back, his foot slipping down to the next lower step.

Dean noticed and held his hands out a little, like he was trying not to spook Sam.

"You know it's me, right?"

"Yeah. Of course. Of course I know it's you." Sam still tried to sound casual but the words came out stiff.

"Okay." Dean dropped his hands and took another step or two closer. Sam steeled himself not to move. "You're okay?"

Sam couldn't remember how to answer. It'd only been four months and he couldn't remember how he ever used to answer that question from Dean.

"I couldn't sleep." But maybe that was a lie.

"_Aaaand_ - you thought running outside would make you tired." Dean answered in that annoyingly_Dean_ way he had - used to have - had -

Sam couldn't think.

What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to answer_anything_ when all he wanted was to run up and grab Dean in a hug like he used to when Dean and Dad would be on a hunt when Sam was still too young to go with, and it was a bad hunt and there was no phone calls or contact of any kind and then they'd just show up suddenly in Pastor Jim's driveway and Sam would run out and try to grab them both at the same time with the dirt and blood and sweat still on them. And even though they'd been the ones in danger, Sam never felt safe again until Dad had squeezed him hard and ruffled his hair and once or twice even kissed the top of his head, when it'd been a_really_ bad hunt, and then Dean would_ '__let'_ Sam hug the life out of him, and would hug him back just as hard and once or twice even lifted Sam off his feet, before he'd say, '_What are you, a girl?'_ and then keep a tight grip on Sam's shirt as they went into the rectory together.

"Sammy?"

What was he supposed to say,_'You're here and it scares me and I don't know why.'?_

"Sam - you know Bobby did the holy water, the silver, the -."

"_Dean, I know it's you._"

It came out stronger than he'd intended. What was he supposed to say when the only thing_to_ say couldn't be_said_.

Dean nodded, with that resigned look on his face. He shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged a shoulder back to the house.

"I can go back inside."

"No. Don't -_ please."_

"I won't." Dean said, and Sam nodded and still couldn't move any closer. All he wanted was to feel Dean safe and warm and alive just like he'd felt when he grabbed him in the motel room back in Pontiac, but all he could do now was stand back away from Dean, feeling stupid and confused and somehow caught out even though Dean couldn't know anything about what had been going on. What was_still_ going on.

"I just – it's just – it was_hard_, you know? These past four months were –_hard_ – and – when I wake up and – and –_see_ you – I don't know – sometimes I don't_remember_ – I used to dream you all the time and sometimes not even when I was asleep – and – it was – just -_hard_."

"And it's harder now that I'm back?" Dean asked. His voice was neutral.

"No! God – no._No._ It's just – it's just -." Sam gestured wearily with his hand. "A week ago - a week ago -." But he couldn't put a voice to the place he'd been in a week ago. "I just don't think I deserve something so great happening to me."

Dean's eyebrows went up in surprise for a moment.

"Well hell, I know _I'm_ worth it." He said it flatly and Sam couldn't help but laugh, even though that wasn't Dean had been saying before.

"Yes, you are worth it."

Sam turned and sat himself on the top step. His feet were cold on the steps, _he_ was cold on the steps until Dean sat down next to him and Sam felt the warmth that was Dean just roll around him.

"So -." That was usually Dean's way of starting a painful or prying conversation. "You used to dream me? See me?"

_Used to._ As though it wasn't just days ago that last time it happened.

"I - Dean -." Sam felt his throat closing over, and his breath hurt inside his chest. Maybe the problem wasn't the times he'd seen Dean when he shouldn't have, but the times he hadn't seen him when he _should_ have. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay." And that was it. For a few minutes, it was the chill night, the dark yard, and the two of them sitting silent on the steps of Bobby's house.

"I missed you." Sam said, offered, and wondered why he did.

Any other time, any other circumstance, and Sam would expect a smart answer from Dean, '_as often as you could?'_ but Dean only offered back,

"I'm here, Sam."

Sam closed his eyes and fought the urge to rest against Dean's shoulder, like he used to when he was a kid. And when he was not so much a kid either. He wanted to, but it was easier to not need Dean than it was to risk - _anything_ - ever again. It was easier to not let down the shield of disconnect he'd carried since - since -

Beside him, Dean sighed.

"Nighttime's always the worst, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is." Sam agreed.

"You getting enough sleep, Sam? I don't mean tonight, just - overall? You okay? You been taking some knocks these past couple of days."

"_I'm fine._" But Sam turned away. From Dean. From his question. From his concern. From what Sam had learned to survive without.

Then there was silence again.

Then -

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"_Sam?"_

That was Dean's serious '_look at me_' voice, because Sam hadn't turned back. So he turned, like he was five not twenty-five, and his big brother could still tell him what to do.

"_I'm here, Sam._" Dean said again when Sam met his eyes. "Where are _you_?"

_In a bloody kitchen, next to a silent grave, in an empty car, at a foul crossroads, on an endless drive in an endless night in endless pain. _

But those warm eyes, boring into his own, reminded Sam that those were places he had _been. _Now, _right now,_ he was with Dean. _Dean_. Not Phantom Dean. Not dream Dean or nightmare Dean or dead Dean. Not _not_ Dean.

"I'm here."

Where he had fought so hard for so many months to be. Right where he wanted to be.

Dean's mouth curled up a little. In amusement. In pride. Sam couldn't help an answering smile.

"You're okay?" Dean asked again.

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"Because like - I'm _freezing_ out here." Dean said it like Sam wouldn't know he could see Sam shivering.

"Yeah. And Bobby's thermostat is rusted at sixty degrees." Sam said. "I think I'm gonna build the fire up in the fireplace again, sit there for awhile."

"Sounds good to me."

So they got up and walked to the door together and Dean let Sam go in first. When Sam turned to the library, Dean turned to the stairs upstairs.

"_Dean?_" Sam had to keep himself from calling out too loud. He didn't want to wake Bobby. But - where was Dean going?

"I'll be right back." Dean called back in the same half-whisper and went upstairs.

The fireplace was already set up with kindling and wood and paper shoved in underneath just waiting for the match that Sam lit and touched to it. The flames caught and grew and Sam dropped himself onto the couch to watch them. Tiredness was falling over him again and maybe he should follow Dean upstairs and go back to bed before he couldn't move himself off this couch again. But just for a minute, he rested his head back and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the fire had died and he was lying on the couch with a blanket over him, and his long sleeve shirt and a pair of clean socks draped over the arm where he couldn't miss them.

And Dean was sleeping on the hard plank floor with some folded blankets as his pillows and covered only with his jacket. Sam knew he'd been there all night. He could've gone back upstairs to sleep in a nice, warm, comfortable bed, but instead he'd slept right here to keep Sam's phantoms at bay.

"_Dean?"_ Sam whispered.

"M'right here, Sam." Dean mumbled in reply.

"Yeah. I know…I'm glad you are."

The End


End file.
